A Last Gift
by Jannifer
Summary: Borrowing from Zevran's backstory as created by Rhiononon - The werewolf she just killed had begged for mercy. She could take her pelt, but was it the right thing to do?


Aeron knelt beside Danyla, who was still in her werewolf form, running her hand gently over her head. _ She is so peaceful now. _

Her quiet musing was interrupted by the faint creaking of leather, a courtesy on Zevran's part, before he squatted beside her. "Even in this cursed form, she has a certain beauty. It is odd, is it not?"

Aeron looked up in surprise. "I was just thinking the same thing. There's something..."

"A certain grace, a delicacy in her features, no?"

"Exactly. And her coat isn't as rough as the other weres we've seen. Perhaps because she hadn't been living rough the way they have?" Aeron ran her hand over the silky, golden brown coat, streaked with silver which only served to highlight its sheen.

"No doubt," Zevran studied the body between them, then ran his own hand over the were's coat. "You should take her pelt and make something of it."

Aeron's shocked gaze locked on the assassin's face. "What? You can't be serious! She was a person. She was loved and valued. She deserves a proper funeral. There's certainly enough wood for a pyre. We should..."

"The Dalish do not burn their dead, my Warden. They bury them so that they may return to the earth and then they plant a tree above them as a memorial. The remains of those lives have nourished parts of the forest all about us," he said, gesturing with his chin while his eyes held hers.

"They bury them? That's...the body rots?" Aeron stroked Danyla's beautiful pelt over and over while she mulled over what Zevran had said. "It seems wrong to leave her out here to be picked over and scavenged, but...I...suppose you're right. Zathrian certainly isn't going to let any of the Dalish see her in this form. And her people...we should follow the customs of her people." She started to rise, but Zevran laid a gentle hand on her arm.

"Among the _Ga'hals lunimasilsh_, my foster mother's people, nothing is wasted. They live in harsh lands where survival is difficult. They often make small items from the bodies of those who have died. A charm from a bone, a treasured book covered in carefully tanned skin, a bracelet woven from hair. These things have memory and power. We use them reverently, gently. They are the final gifts we receive from those we...care about and respect."

"You skin your dead? But, that's..."

"It is a way to keep them close to us." Zevran shrugged as he explained. "The _lunimasilsh_ are nomads and a very practical people. Graves would be destroyed by the harsh winds and shifting sands of their lands. But to have a part of someone? To remember those we have lost through their last gifts? Should I ever return to Antiva, I can only hope to be so honored."

Aeron's shock at the alien thought began to ebb. It was against everything she'd been taught about respect for the dead, but at the same time... _It seems like a terrible thing to do. But it also sounds...comforting. Perhaps it wouldn't be so awful to remember her in such a way._ "Would you help me? I don't..."

"Of course, my Warden," one of those faint enigmatic smiles of quiet approval touched his face briefly.

*\_/*

Aeron laid out her bedroll and ran her fingers through the soft pelt that had once been a Dalish elf. Danyla had been a beloved wife. She had been a hunter of great skill, important to her people. The Warden and her party had buried Danyla according to Dalish custom to honor her as her own people would have done. Since then, her beautiful pelt had been tanned and now served to keep Aeron warm during the increasingly colder nights of a Ferelden fall. Zevran had taken one of Danyla's fangs and Worked it into a talisman that dangled from the thong he used to keep his hair back. Her tail had been used to frame the hood of Morrigan's cloak. Even Mykle, her Mabari, had asked for a token and had been given a claw which he wore on his collar with great pride.

Aeron had not felt the need to explain what these "trophies" actually meant to the other members of their party. Alistair and Leliana, with their firm adherence to the Chantry's teachings, would be appalled that Danyla's body had been so "desecrated." Aeron, however, was discovering that Zevran was right. There was a certain comfort in having the protection of Danyla's fur during the long, cold nights. Every night, she remembered the woman who had fought the curse burning through her blood, the woman whose final words had been, "Creators bless you."

"Thank you, Danyla. May your Creators speed you on your way."


End file.
